Hands folded in prayer now rest on the counter. Fluffy ears flick here and there, to catch the many words of Mars. His eyes welcome in every gesture of his sculpted arms, the swift dance of expressions playing out across his face. Mars speaks to a captive audience of one, undistracted by thoughts of what to say next or what he might petition for. The more he talks, the more little lights he leaves behind. What was once a void of total nothingness and infinite threat, now winds a dimly-lit path. Star by star, tracing out a vision of the divine to mortals far below.

So long as he keeps talking, Dolce can follow the path.

“It is as you say, sir.” He raises his glass without missing a beat. “I have traveled far with the Starsong Privateers, yet farther still on this journey, and I have still found no peace in these worlds. I don’t just mean war and bloodshed, either. I have met so few who seem to desire it at all. Her Highness a notable exception, of course, and thank goodness for that. But for many others, it always seems to be thrones, power, control, but never peace. Never what comes after.” War leading to war, coup leading to coup, conflict to conflict to never ending conflict. Too few to keep the warlords away from peaceful worlds trying only to rebuild. No one to stop the cruel whims of the Armada. A galaxy growing quieter and quieter, heading always towards a final, deathly silence.

He takes another bracing sip, and stares long into his bitter drink. “This may be a silly question, given that I may forget it all anyway. And, if we succeed, we should see it ourselves, but…what’s it like? The land of the living? Where people know you and remember you, Sir Mars?